Playing Hurt
by K Hanna Korossy
Summary: Adventures in Babysitting tag story: He seriously doubts either of them are up for this hunt...but maybe in the end that's not such a bad thing.


**Playing Hurt**  
K Hanna Korossy

"You sure that's the best lead we've got from Chambers' files? 'The Unluckiest Family in America'?" Dean asked, voice raised to be heard over the Pinto's rattling engine.

Sam shuffled through the folder crammed with internet printouts, amused once again at the notes in the margins written in purple looping script. Krissy Chambers might've been a pretty awesome hunter-in-training from what Sam had seen, but she was also a fifteen-year-old girl. He approved wholeheartedly of her dad leaving the hunt behind to give his daughter a safe, normal life, if a little wistfully.

_"Still wish Daddy had made the same choice?" _a voice only he heard taunted from the back seat.

Sam idly rubbed against the bandage on his throat, pressing at the tender vetala bite marks, and knew without looking that Lucifer had vanished. Not that it mattered; Sam knew now their dad had done the right thing. The Winchesters would not have been allowed to sit out the fight between Good and Evil. If their dad had raised them like normal kids, they would have been quickly consumed by the battle that was to come.

"Your neck bothering you?" Dean's question pulled Sam back to the here and now. His brother was casting him increasingly suspicious glances.

"I'm fine," Sam said shortly, because it was true as it got those days. Bone-deep fatigue, heartsickness, and a flickering wall between reality and Hellish delusions was his norm now. He flipped through more papers. "There's a couple things that might be poltergeists or hauntings, a bunch of dead cows in Oklahoma, and what sounds like a Baku working its way through a suburb of Boise, but this is the only hunt with a victim count piling up right now."

"Well, Krissy's pretty sharp—if she thought it was something, it probably is."

The rare thread of fondness in Dean's voice made Sam grin. "You like her."

Dean gave him a horrified look. "Dude, she's young enough to be my kid!"

"That's not—" Sam made an exasperated sound. "Dude, not everything's about…that. It's okay to just _like_ someone."

A cloud immediately descended over Dean's face, and Sam's heart, as he realized how effectively he'd just killed the conversation. The fact was, just about everybody they liked, loved, or even knew, was dead now. Bobby…Bobby was…

Dean cleared his throat. "So, unlucky family. Anybody left to talk to?"

Sam grasped gratefully at the diversion. "Uh, I found two Showalters left: cousins Serena and Gene."

"And all the rest of them were whacked by weather?" Dean actually sounded a little interested, which was a positive step after the last month of apathy, broken by brief flare-ups of rage at Dick Roman. Maybe this really was a good idea.

"Yeah," Sam confirmed. "Serena's parents were killed when a tornado dropped a tree on their house, Gene's dad drowned after a freak storm sent his car off the road into a river, his brother followed a day later when the riverbank he was standing on—trying to help retrieve Dad—gave way, and their cousin was electrocuted in his home by lightning hitting the line while he was on the phone."

Dean huh-ed. "I thought the whole being-electrocuted-on-the-phone thing was a myth."

Sam pulled out the picture he'd hacked from the medical examiner's office and held it up.

Dean glanced over and made a face, swallowing heavily. "Okay, guess not."

"Thing is," Sam continued, "the last weather-related death in the area was over two years ago, and now five members of the same family buy it in four separate events in three weeks?"

"So," Dean breathed out. "Not a coincidence."

Sam gave him a wry look.

"Okay. You thinking family curse?"

"Maybe. Could be a cursed object, too, or a vengeful spirit."

"Any other recent non-freak-of-nature family deaths?"

"Not that I could find," Sam admitted. "But you know that doesn't prove anything."

Dean hummed a bland agreement. "You wanna start with Serena and Walter—?"

"Gene."

"What I said. Or the scenes? Hit up the police? M.E.? Nearest weather bureau?"

Sam chewed his lip. "If it's some kind of family curse, we should probably check out the survivors, find out what they know, figure out if one of 'em's next."

Dean nodded. "You got an address?"

Sam dug back into the papers to find it, trying not to feel like this was too easy. His plan made sense, and Dean often let him take the lead. But there was also no question that Bobby's death had quashed something in Dean, made him ambivalent and uncertain about anything except killing Roman. It'd taken Sam nearly getting killed on the last hunt to bring Dean in, and while his brother seemed to be on board this time, Sam couldn't help wonder how much he was really paying attention. He'd watch Sam's back; Sam knew that. But would he watch his own?

"Dude, exit's coming up," Dean said impatiently.

"Right." Sam shook his head and read off the address, already looking up directions.

Like so many things in their life, it was probably too late for second thoughts now.

00000

Serena Showalter was a total bust. Even if she knew something, they wouldn't have been able to tease it out between her sobs. When she buried her face in Dean's shoulder and started bawling in earnest, Sam was amused by his brother's discomfiture…until he'd seen the real panic lurking in Dean's eyes. This was a little too close to emotions his brother had buried deep, and Sam had quickly extricated him from the grieving woman and chivvied them out.

On the way back to the car, Dean uncharacteristically didn't comment either on emotional Serena or Sam's quick exit…but then, what was typical when you'd lost your second-to-last living loved one? Sam found himself searching for the right words, again, to lighten the mood and ease the strain in Dean's features. "Well, that was—"

"—_tedious,_" Lucifer filled in beside him.

"—useless," Dean said at the same time, a lot more bitter than the devil on Sam's shoulder.

Sam grasped for hope. "Maybe later we can—"

"—_twist the knife a little deeper?" _

"—make her cry some more?" And yeah, this whole Lucifer-Dean echo thing wasn't disconcerting at all. Dean wheeled back just as they reached the Pinto. "Sam, she lost her parents, uncle, and a couple of cousins in the last month—she's not gonna calm down anytime soon."

Sam felt his mouth tighten in frustration, and he made an effort not to let it pucker bitchily. Dean wasn't trying to be difficult. "All right, so…what do you want to do then?"

Dean shrugged. "There's still Walter."

"Gene," Sam corrected. "You think he'll be easier to get something out of?"

Dean flung open the Pinto's door, barely glancing at Sam over the low roof. "Doesn't hurt to try," he said, and slid into the car.

That wasn't true, Sam thought stormily, but he grabbed the door handle to follow suit.

"_Shotgun!" _came the hallucinatory sing-song.

Sam pressed against his neck until he felt stitches strain. The dark spots in his vision were completely worth the silence that followed him into the car.

Walt—_Gene _Showalter lived in his parents' home a scant mile away from his cousin, in a small brick cube of a house that had seen better days. Sam scanned the peeling shutters, overgrown garden, and curtainless windows, realizing with a stab that what he was seeing was the lack of a woman's touch. Gene's mother had died four years before of cancer, just about the level of neglect the house showed.

He glanced over at Dean, wondering if his brother saw what he did. Dean, after all, had never had the chance to live with a woman as an adult as Sam had with Jess-not counting his damaged, alcoholic year with Lisa-and could be pretty clueless about feminine influences that didn't involve their influence on _him. _But Dean's eyes were firmly glued to the front door they were approaching, clearly avoiding the view Sam was examining. It puzzled him a moment—was Dean really that indifferent?—until he caught the clench of Dean's jaw. Another glance around the yard, this time through his brother's eyes, and Sam suddenly got it: the practical maintenance without regard for the aesthetic, the tall grass and patches of dirt, the tools scattered around the porch. It was more than a little reminiscent of Bobby's place, before the Leviathans had destroyed that, too.

Sam flinched, feeling again the pressing sense of loss and grief. He also missed Bobby, _so much. _But he couldn't handle the Hell hallucinations and Dean's desolation on top of his own, so he swallowed hard and shoved it to the back of his mind yet again. One day he'd grieve, but today was not the day.

They trod up the steps to the colorless porch, and Dean rang the doorbell. It took almost a full minute before the door opened.

Gene Showalter looked every bit as drab as his house. He had about ten years on the Winchesters, and thinning blond hair and a beer belly to show for it. But he was dressed neatly in gray slacks and neat button-down, and Sam's hope rose sharply for getting something useful out of the interview.

"Mr. Showalter?" Dean flipped open a badge; Sam wasn't sure his brother even knew which one. "We'd like to ask you a few questions about the recent deaths in your family."

They'd debated what cover to use in this case, especially with the Leviathans monitoring a lot of their usual IDs. But law enforcement still provoked the least amount of questions, and few bothered to examine their badges. It was still the safest way to go, even if they were now Agents Smith and Jones.

"Uh, okay." Showalter eyed them uneasily, but most people did when police showed up at their door. "Come in."

They sat stiffly on a flower-patterned couch across from Showalter, who settled into a La-Z-Boy. Sam's glance around the room buttressed his theory: a clean, decently maintained house, but with aging décor. On the mantel was a gold-framed picture of a soft-featured white-haired woman.

"Mr. Showalter, we're sorry for your loss. Losses," Sam quickly amended. "Tragic accidents. Really."

Did Gene twitch? "The accidents, right. It's been awful. So you two are here because…?"

"Just making sure the local law got all the right information," Dean filled in smoothly. "You know, dotting the t's and crossing the i's."

Showalter frowned. "What?"

Dean blinked, opened his mouth.

"We just wanted to make sure we got all the facts straight," Sam jumped in, ignoring Dean's sidelong glance. "Have there been any other strange deaths in your family before this month? Maybe some old family stories?"

"No." Showalter looked confused. "How does that—?"

"Just making sure," Sam answered with confident vagueness. "Have you seen or heard or felt anything unusual the last few weeks, like you weren't alone in the house, or had any strange accidents?"

Gene's eyes narrowed. "No. Are you saying you think Dad and Barry were—?"

"Not at all." Dean's turn. He smiled, so blatantly phony that Sam almost rolled his eyes, except no one would have seen it in Dean but Sam. "We just want to be sure you're safe."

"I'll…make sure I avoid storms, okay?" Showalter looked at them warily.

Sam backed off. "Can you tell us anything about your cousin Serena?"

"Oh, yeah. Poor Serena. She's had a pretty tough time with all this."

Interesting. Gene's eyes had gone flat at the mention of his "poor cousin," his tone just as toneless. The total lack of empathy set off warning bells in Sam.

"Do you know where she was the night her parents were pancaked?" Dean asked politely.

Sam aimed a swift sideways kick to his brother's ankle under the cover of the coffee table, satisfied at Dean's sucked-in breath.

"She said she had a date." Gene was almost sneering; more and more intriguing. "She goes out a lot."

"Huh." Dean's next question was so friendly, Sam almost missed its significance. "I like your necklace, dude. It mean something?"

Sam's eyes snapped to Gene's chest, just as Showalter clenched a hand around whatever it was suspended from the cord around his neck. "That's none of your business. Look, are we finished here? I've got a lot to do." He slipped the charm out of sight under his shirt.

"Yeah," Sam said. "We got what we needed." He and Dean exchanged a look as they stood; his brother was in total agreement with him. "Thank you for your time."

"No problem." Showalter's tone made a lie of the words. He hovered impatiently, clearly wanting them gone.

Sam's eye caught on the stack of books on top of the table by the La-Z-Boy as he started to turn away. He paused long enough to read the top title: _Cultural Myths of China._ Huh. Then he followed Dean out onto the porch, the door shutting decisively after them.

Dean gave him a significant look, waiting until they were halfway down the walk before muttering, "Well, that wasn't suspicious at all."

"No kidding. Hey, I didn't see the charm—was it a Chinese character?"

Dean frowned over his shoulder. "What? No, looked more like our tats, actually—sun with something in the middle. Like, swirls? Why, Walt seem like he's part Chinese to you?"

Sam snorted. "I don't think Walt—_Gene—_could find China on a map of China. But he had a book on Chinese mythology."

Dean slowed, the creases around his eyes deepening. Sam couldn't help notice how many more frown lines there were than laugh lines. Neither of them were young, in Hell years or in experience, but sometimes he swore he could see every minute of that in his brother's face.

"—lot of vengeance demons in Japanese lore, but I don't know zip about Chinese. You?"

Sam made himself pay attention, even as a fire seemed to flare up around Dean, casting his brother in Hell-light. Sam shied his gaze away. "Uh…no, not a lot. Can you, uh, draw his charm? Maybe that'll give us a lead." A darted glance at Dean revealed his brother's skin melting off his bones. Sam swallowed, reaching up to dig his fingers into the bites on his neck.

He almost jerked away when he felt Dean's hand grab his. "Stitches?"

He shook his head, not daring to look up. "Just, uh…itches."

There was a beat. "Right." Dean slid his hand lower, to the scabs that circled Sam's wrists marking where the vetala had restrained him. The pads of Dean's fingers pressed carefully into the line of healing skin, careful not to reinjure but still sending a zing of pain to the tips of Sam's fingers. "Better?"

Sam opened his eyes—he didn't even remember closing them—and braced himself to look up at Dean…who stood in the middle of an unkempt, unscorched lawn, skin back in place, eyes still crumpled as he watched Sam. Sam breathed out. "Better."

"You can tell me, you know," Dean said quietly.

He did know. Just like he knew that Dean would take every burden onto his shoulders until he collapsed under their weight. "It wasn't bad until now," Sam whispered.

Dean gave him a skeptical look but let it drop, along with Sam's hand. "You up for driving? I've got art homework to do."

"You just don't want to drive the Pinto anymore," Sam parried halfheartedly, but trying, always trying.

Dean huffed. "Like you do. Next car we jack is gonna be classier."

"Recognizable," Sam interpreted.

"Bigger," Dean negotiated.

Sam paused. It would be nice not to have to fold himself into a vehicle. "Okay," he agreed.

The smile he got for that was weak, but it felt like winning the lottery.

00000

By the time they found the cheapest motel in town and checked in, Dean had a decent drawing of a sun with straight beams and four interlocking swirls in the center. He sat down at the laptop to try to find it, while Sam dug out any Asian mythology books they had. He noticed Dean had photographed the drawing, automatically preparing to send it to Bobby for his input, before pausing and then roughly stuffing his phone back into his pocket. Sam felt a stab of pain, not even sure if it was imagined Hell-pain, emotional hurt, or leftover physical damage from the vetalas, and turned away to his own task.

"Got it," Dean said before Sam had much luck.

He looked up, eyes tiredly refocusing on his brother halfway across the room.

There was a soft rumble of thunder outside as Dean grabbed the laptop and hauled it over to the bed Sam sat on. "Haven't found the source yet, but it represents the elements. The four swirly things stand for fire, air, earth, and water."

Sam huh-ed. "Like tornadoes, lightning, and storms?"

"Yeah, maybe." Another crackle of thunder, this time louder, rattled the windows lightly.

Sam exchanged a look with his brother, then they both bolted for the window.

To the east, the sky was still a robin's egg blue with a few puffy clouds. To the west, a clump of dark clouds hovered in the middle of a green-tinted sky. Even as they watched, lightning lit up sections of the cloud.

"That look normal to you?" Dean asked, faux casual.

"Doesn't Serena Showalter live that way?" Sam's eyes were still glued to the analogous cluster of bad weather.

Dean groaned. "You think destroying the amulet'll stop Walter?"

Sam winced. He probably would have eventually found something, but they were running out of time. It wasn't the first hunt they'd have to do by the seat of their pants, but that was never their first choice. "Maybe? Might have some kind of altar, too, if he's got that kind of power."

"Okay, so, you go stop Weather Boy, and I'll make sure Serena's okay."

"What?" Sam snapped away from the hypnotic view, frowning at Dean instead. "Dean—"

"We have to split up, man," Dean said, not without sympathy. "What if he gets to Serena before we can figure out how to break his control? She's got friggin' Mother Nature gunning for her—one of us needs to go make sure she's safe."

It was true. Sam hated it, but it was true. But, "I'll go help Serena," he countered. "You stop Walter." Gene. Whatever.

Dean gave him a look, the one where he was listening to what Sam wasn't saying. Like that Sam didn't really trust himself to deal with Walter when he couldn't be sure of his perceptions. Or that he needed to feel like he was helping someone right now. Or how scared he was to not be with the one person who sorta got what he was struggling with and kept him grounded. "You sure?" was all Dean quietly asked.

Sam swallowed and nodded, just as a spear of lightning darted earthward from the poisonous clouds.

A second later they were both in motion, throwing gear into bags, then heading outside. Dean had another car, an inconspicuous little Volvo hotwired for Sam by the time he joined his brother outside.

Dean gave him a grin. "The car that could survive the Apocalypse, right?"

Sam rolled his eyes but felt the tug of a grin back. It was his brother saying he loved him, and Sam felt his shoulders square a little. Stone number one. Time to start building.

Even as he raced toward Serena Showalter's house, however, he kept his eye on the rear view mirror until the Pinto was out of sight.

Okay, so the weather was out to get Serena. That could take a lot of forms, everything from a curse like the kind that had unleashed the bug population on Oasis Plains, to a warlock using black magick to control nature, to a deal struck with a sprite. More research would have given him a better idea what they were dealing with, but he'd have to make do. Weather was still weather, and getting Serena someplace safe, underground maybe, should be enough until Dean stopped Showalter.

Sam hoped.

The wind picked up as he got closer, rain starting to streak the windshield. The sky was an even sicklier shade of green, and a tornado alert siren had started to howl nearby. Sam had seen the signs a few times before, an actual twister only once—and even then only for a second before Dean had hurried him into the motel bathtub until it passed—but anyone would have recognized that a serious storm was coming. The streets were almost empty, and Sam battled the increasing buffets of wind as he turned onto Serena's block.

The gusts were actually strong enough that they made walking straight impossible as Sam darted up the walk. It kept pushing him off into the grass on the left, even as Sam hunkered down against flying sticks, whipped-up pebbles, and the occasional flapping piece of paper or flying litter.

He banged on the door with his fist, more out of the need to make himself be heard than impatience, although there was that, too. Lightning was forking across the sky, and several bolts caged Serena's house. It wouldn't have been obvious for someone not looking for it, because who looked for vindictive weather?, but Serena's house was the clear center of the storm, a magnet for the lightning and wind that whipped around it. Sam slammed his fist against the door again, cursing to himself as he looked up at the furious clouds above…and froze.

A face, equally furious, looked down at him, features shifting as the clouds boiled and rolled.

Okay, Sam thought desperately, forget curses and Mother Nature and sprites. Showalter had a freakin' elemental on a leash, and that was bad, bad news. They were powerful enough to reach anywhere, directing earthquakes underground, commanding water to flood, sending fires roaring. One had almos killed Sam once already; if Dean didn't stop Walter at his end, they were seriously screwed.

The door in front of him flew open, revealing a white-faced Serena.

Oddly, the presence of an innocent to protect settled Sam's anxiety. Yeah, he was going up against big guns with a slingshot, but he was better than nothing.

"Come on!" he yelled to be heard above the wind as he grabbed Serena's hand and yanked her into the house with him.

"What—? Agent—"

Sam cut her off. "Do you have a basement?"

"Uh." She blinked, pointed tremulously.

"Great. Good." Sam shoved her toward the door even as lightning lit up the house. "Go down there and don't come up until it's quiet."

"But—"

"Now!" he barked. Deafening thunder punctuated the command and sent her scurrying, the basement door slamming in her wake.

Sam didn't waste time watching her go. He was already racing through the house, mind one step ahead.

Elementals were creatures of nature, repelled by their natural opposites. Fire and water cancelled each other out, as did earth and air. The face in the clouds suggested an air elemental, but that was assuming it was the only elemental Showalter had corralled. Tornado, lightning storm, sending a car of the road: it was possible all of those were the work of an air elemental. So, earth would repel it. Sam scoured his memories. Not dirt, but from the earth… He almost laughed when he flung open the kitchen cabinet. Salt.

The front door blew open with a bang, sending wind whipping through the house. Sam braced himself, grabbing the canister of Morton's—thankfully almost full—as he scanned the room for tape and a marker. The third try netted him a junk drawer with—thank God—Sharpies and a roll of duct tape. Sam grabbed both and pushed his way back to the basement door.

He uncapped the Sharpie and drew a big upside-down triangle on the center of the door, bisected with a horizontal line. Man, he hoped he remembered his elemental sigils right. Next he pulled off a big piece of duct tape and, doing his best to shield his work from the wind, poured a generous stripe of salt down the center of the strip. A lot blew off, but hopefully enough remained to do the job. Sam slapped the tape into place along the bottom of the door, then moved toward the front door to make sure there were no other entrances to the basement.

Ideally, he should've ringed Serena in salt. Probably also the three other representative elements to cover his bases. And drawn sigils around the property. And probably joined her in the protection rings, while he was at it.

There wasn't any time, though. Not when the front windows suddenly shattered in a spray of glass as the wind punched them. Serena screamed from the basement.

Trying to protect his face with an arm, Sam pushed back against the wind and trudged outside.

The rain was falling in sheets, reducing visibility to just what was in front of him and stinging any exposed skin. His clothes were instantly soaked, freezing and heavy. And lightning was arcing overhead, just looking for a target…like a wet, tall human out in the open. Breathing curses under his breath even as he pleaded with his brother to _hurry, _Sam started making his way around the house, one hand pressed against the brick to guide him.

The wind howled its rage at him, battering him against the solid wall of the house. The rain was painfully sharp, and sent streams of pink water into his eyes from the cut he'd apparently gotten from the flying glass. Yard debris launched a constant attack at his face and snarled his legs with branches, lawn furniture, and hanging planters. A grill came out of nowhere, knocking the wind out of Sam and leaving him hunched and gasping.

Lightning struck the grass not two feet away, starting a fire that lasted only a second in the downpour. Sam started to seriously doubt he'd survive this, and there was no way he'd be able to lay down any kind of salt lines around the basement windows. His foot bumped against one, recessed into the ground, and it was all Sam could do to kneel and draw another earth sigil on the frame. He was pretty sure he was close to the corner of the house, too, which probably meant at least one more window on the next side.

Choking on the water spraying into his mouth, Sam pushed on.

One step. Another. Something whipped across his face, stinging his cheek. His feet tangled in a garden hose that almost seemed alive for how it thrashed around. Another window blew, up ahead, and Sam's upraised arm took the brunt of it.

He marched on, conscious only of his mission now. One more step. Another.

The wall disappeared. He stood blankly until he realized: corner. Stepped around.

Unprotected, the wind hit him like a battering ram, sending him to his knees, then tumbling back. His head hit something, the blood thicker in one eye now.

Sam tried to get to his feet, went down again. A nearby tree was bent nearly in half by the wind, its branches reaching for him like a tangle of arms. Again the wind shoved him, and Sam finally gave in, tucking and rolling with it.

Then it was all spinning and sharp objects and blunt blows and cold and wet. He couldn't see, couldn't hear above the roar, couldn't breathe…

And then, just like that, it was gone.

Sam's body lay heavy and limp. Water bubbled at his mouth. He couldn't feel parts of him, and the rest was icy and laden.

He tried to open his eyes.

The landscape had changed. Branches blanketed everything. Water shone in patches in between. Around him there were…houses? Cars? They looked strange.

Oh. He was on the ground. On his side, looking up.

Sam started to push up, groaning deeply as every single muscle, and most of his skin and bones, protested. Some refused to work, one arm limp, head hanging.

There was…he should check on…Showalter? Sam tried to blink things into focus, succeeding only in concentrating on his body's complaints, all the aches and the turmoil of his stomach and the pounding of his head. About the only good thing was that his real pain was so _present_, Lucifer didn't have a chance of competing. The wreckage around Sam was completely real.

Voices were starting to rise, people coming out to see the damage. Maybe even talking to him; he had to get out of there. Get back to Dean. Serena would…she'd be fine. Or not; he'd done what he could. Couldn't…had to get back to Dean now. He was the stone, the anchor.

Sam weaved to his feet, blinking uncomprehendingly at the scatter of broken cars and scenery around him. Pinto…right? Still had keys inside. Sam dropped into the driver's seat, hissing as his battered body hit the upholstery. His arm—left arm—wouldn't move, and he fumbled across his body to get the door.

"Hey, that's my—!"

Sam slammed the heavy door shut. Stared fuzzily at the windshield, the face on the other side. Elemental? With a snort, he pressed on the gas, clumsily satisfied when the face jerked to the side as the car leaped forward.

Back to Dean. Go to Dean. Find Dean. Dean was the rock, his stone.

Sam needed something solid to lean against, just for a little while.

00000

There were times Sam had thought the Impala was instinctively drawn to Dean, like a steed to its owner. When he would get in the car half-unconscious or out of his head, and it would seem to magically end up where Dean was.

That didn't explain how he found his way back to his brother in a stupid Pinto. Which, Sam thought absently, actually is a kind of horse. _The ugly kind_, Dean would retort, and Sam snickered.

The sound was a little crazy, even to his ears.

He'd left the stupid Pinto at the curb, with…another Pinto? They were multiplying. Dean was a bad influence. Sam would've laughed at that, too, but he was concentrating too hard on putting one foot in front of another. Going…he had to go to Dean. The house was ahead and Dean would be there, and that was all that mattered anymore.

Sam stumbled, going down on hands and knees. His palms stung from the contact, his shoulder howling. With effort, he pushed himself back up and determinedly shuffled on.

Maybe the homing beacon was in him, not the car. Sometimes it felt that way. All his life, when he'd been hurt, when he'd been scared, when he'd been lonely or stuck or in need, he'd turned unerringly to Dean. Dean's was the number he'd pulled up the most in college, even if his pride had rarely let him push CALL. Need Dean, Want Dean, Go to Dean.

Dean's programming, however, seemed to run: Need Sam, Want Sam, Suck it up and go hide somewhere to lick your wounds. The default patterns they'd learned since they were tiny.

Sam wasn't so self-denying. He'd been going to Dean for help since before he could say his brother's name, and he wasn't likely to stop now.

Walter Showgene's—Show Genewalter's?—loomed ahead. Dean was there, stopping the…whatever. Elemental guy. Maybe needed backup. That was Sam; Sam was the only one left. They didn't have anyone else left to turn to but each other.

One more step. One more. One… Huh. Door. Ajar, thank God. Sam careened inside.

There was a heap on the floor, glistening with red. And someone standing over it. Dean, Colt in hand, leather jacket. Angry.

"Dean?" Sam's lips were numb, the name a little slurred.

Dean barely glanced back at him, face pale with fury. "The son of a bitch killed his family."

Sam frowned a little. Hadn't they already known that?

"He told me all about it, actually _boasted_ about it. He killed them all one by one, and you know why, Sam, what their unforgivable crime was? They had their own lives and didn't pay enough attention to him."

He swayed, bewildered.

"I mean, this guy has a dad, a brother, cousins and uncles and aunts who cared about him and were there for him, and he _drowns _and _electrocutes _and _crushes _them because their lives didn't revolve around him? I mean, seriously?" Dean's arm, the gun, was waving around.

Sam followed the swooping gleam of metal, oddly mesmerized.

"You know how many people would give anything to have family like that? How many people would _kill_ to get what he just threw away?"

They weren't…were they talking about Walter? Sam licked his deadened lips, tasting iron and dirt.

"Dude deserved worse than he got. It was an elemental, Sam—it came back and scrubbed the skin off the bastard." Dean snorted, still pacing, still gesturing. Sam was dizzy just trying to follow him. "Guess it didn't like being Walt's puppet. Should've fried, drowned, and pounded the son of a bitch, see how _he_ liked it."

Eyes fluttering closed, Sam swallowed sickly.

"They're all dead, Sam. He had it all, and he flushed it down the can. I mean, who does that? I can't even friggin' keep my family_ alive_, and he _kills_ his?"

Sam blindly groped an arm outward, looking for the wall, something solid to prop him. This was important, this was… He'd waited so long for Dean to…

"I'm-I'm barely keepin' it together, Sammy, you know? Maybe I didn't deserve what I had, either, but I tried _so friggin' hard_ to take care of it, and I still lost it all." Dean's voice hitched as he shook his head. "Didn't appreciate what…"

And then his eyes landed on Sam.

There was a pause, then a startled curse from Dean. Suddenly his brother was in front of him. "What the-? What happened to you? Sammy? Hey. Where're you hurt?"

There were hands all over Sam: against his battered face, around his waist, splayed against his chest, under his shoulder. Where'd Dean get so many freakin' hands? Sam decided he didn't care, just sighed in relief and leaned into those arms, let Dean worry about it.

"Talk to me, Sam—we need a hospital here?" His shirt was tugged up, the back of his head cradled, blood wiped out of his eye. "Dude, you look like—"

"No'm…" The words were running together like water. He tried again. "Jus'…sore. Tired." He hissed when his bad arm was jostled. "'Lemen'l…"

"The elemental did this?" More quietly vehement cursing, a rage completely counter to the careful manipulation. "Okay. Okay. I got it, Sam. I'm just gonna sit you down for a minute so I can check the place out, find a bed. Gene's not gonna be needing his."

Sam's legs were on board with the plan to sit, the rest of him more reluctant. But Dean eased him down against the wall, wedging something between the hard surface and Sam's aching head. With a quick pat of the cheek, he left before Sam could even try to assemble a protest.

Might as well take advantage of the downtime. Sam leaned forward and proceeded to empty his stomach onto the floor.

"Crap. Sammy." Next thing he knew, the warm hands had returned, lifting him back against the wall and pushing the hair out of his face so Dean could peer worriedly at him. "Your eyes are irritated as Hell, but they're reacting okay—you pass out before?" He wound something a couple times around Sam hair and ears, then glanced down. "Your head's still bleeding like a bitch, but you're not bringing up blood…"

He shook his head limply, not even sure what he was answering.

"Attaboy. Okay, stay with me, Sam. Found a good place to get you horizontal. Just give me a couple more minutes, all right?" He was pulling Sam up, grunting with the weight as Sam feebly tried to help push up and failed. "Well, at least I don't have to worry about you not eating," Dean puffed.

Sam's stomach cramped again, suddenly remembering the tapioca pudding Dean had forced on him at the hospital after the vetala attack, the one in which his hell-muddled brain saw floating eyeballs. Green-hazel, like Dean's eyes. He lurched more heavily into Dean, felt his brother's solid, calm hands brace him as he gagged.

"No no no, keep it in, Sammy. No spewing on your big brother. Just a coupl'a steps more."

His head was swimming. Sam let it droop onto Dean's nearby shoulder, gulping a few times to try to settle his fractious stomach.

"The bed's got hospital corners and everything. Dude really kept it together on the outside for someone who was cracking up inside." A pause, Dean readjusting his grip with a mumbled curse. "Hey, remember when Dad tried to teach us how to make a bed the Marine way? And then you asked him why we bothered when there was room service for that?"

Distantly, he realized that Dean sounded calmer, steadier. Sam buried his nose in his brother's skin and breathed out through his mouth, falling into the same rhythm as Dean's ramblings.

"Thought he was gonna smack you." Inhale. "I know you two didn't get along, but, dude—" Exhale. "—you have no idea how many of his buttons you were pushing without even trying." Inhale. "I think Bobby got you a lot more, you know?" Shaky exhale. Quietly, "Me, too, you know? 'S like he could read my mind sometimes—that old man was scary."

Sam's feet tangled, and the grip on him tightened, kept him upright.

Dean sucked in a breath. "Almost there," he soothed. "Got a nice bed all waiting for you. Geez, dude, you're dripping all over me—you take a little swim before you came back?"

Then he was being eased down flat. The mattress was softer than he'd felt in some time, and it smelled like flowers instead of bleach and smoke. He could have cried in relief.

"Hey, it's not that bad, Sammy." A swipe across his cheek. "It's not that bad. I'm gonna take care of it, okay?"

There was some kind of memory there, Dean saying similar words in desperate, frightened tones. His brother needed him, too, now more than ever since Bobby was gone, and Sam wanted to be there for him. He was just so friggin' tired.

"You don't have to do anything, okay? Just hang on a few more minutes."

He could do that. There was a soft _snick_, and Sam pried his eyes open partway to see Dean had pulled out his favorite knife.

"Hold still, Sam." His brother started cutting off the drenched and tattered clothes.

It was sort of embarrassing, in that distant way in which he knew it should bother him that his brother was cleaning him up with a wet cloth and bending his limbs and feeling up his ribs to make sure nothing was too messed up and helping him change his boxers under a towel. Except for the part where they'd done this for each other so many times before that it was less weird than comforting.

"Okay, looks like the worst part's the cut and the shoulder," Dean was muttering, sounded like more to himself than to Sam. Oh, yeah, that did hurt. He'd kinda forgotten in the fog of ache and exhaustion. "So, you wanna tell me what happened with Serena?"

Sam had to think about that a moment. Oh. Maybe he should have checked on her before he'd left. "Uh, think she's—"

Dean slid the ball of Sam's shoulder back into the socket with a jerk.

Sam keened over the snap of the joint and whited out for a second. He floated back, lightheaded, to the feel of Dean threading something between his back and the mattress, then tying it carefully over his arm.

"You with me?" Dean asked, brow furrowed. He looked mad, but Sam knew better.

He swallowed a couple of times and nodded faintly. "She, uh…'think she's okay? Locked her ina basement, salt and sigils…"

"Earth elemental?" Dean guessed, deftly wrapping over Sam's shoulder and around his chest again.

"Yeah," Sam grunted. The hard grip of pain on his shoulder was loosening. His bones felt like lead, his muscles like used gum, but his head was clearing some now that he was lying down. Enough that he could see the certainty in Dean's movements as he bandaged Sam's temple and rebandaged his neck and then rested his bloody forearms and hands on a jeans-clad knee and sterilized and bandaged the cuts and scrapes. The lines in his face easing at the familiar task.

He himself had been struggling so very hard those last months, Sam hadn't considered how hard—in some ways harder—it had to be for Dean to helplessly stand by and watch. Then to have the two others he could share that burden with also taken from them… Dean had been so near the edge, out there in the living room. And Sam's collapse had unexpectedly been the line that had reeled him back. Come to think of it, their previous elemental hunt had ended similarly, Dean saving Sam saved Dean. Even if every other thing in their life no longer made sense, this: _look after your brother_, this still did. It was the one thing Dean would have no doubts about, in which he knew exactly what to do.

Sam cleared his throat. "Hey. I know it's hard. Bobby…"

Dean's expression went blank.

Desperation welled in Sam, bringing clarity and a burst of energy. He pushed up on his good elbow. "No, listen." He flinched, remembering again his brother's broken admission in the other room, and when Dean automatically leaned forward to help him, Sam grabbed his forearm. "I need you to be brave for me, okay? Me an' Mom, remember?"

Dean's face flickered, a flash of pain so deep, it felt like a stab to Sam's gut. "I don't know what you want—"

He shook his head, ignoring how the room reeled a moment. "I need you to fight for me, Dean. Please. I know it's hard and you're tired, but I can't…I can't do this by myself, you know? I just need you to…." Sam's nose prickled. "I just need you."

Dean's expression was twisted and raw. "I dunno what to do, Sam. I can't…" His mouth bent into an odd smile that looked like it would break up into tears at any moment. Sam had seen him smile a few times like that since he'd come back from Frank's, and it hurt every single time.

"Just…watch out for me, man."

"You know I do," Dean whispered.

Once upon a time, Sam would have tried to make his brother talk about it, open up to him. But that was Sam's cure, not Dean's. His brother needed action he could understand, love he could accept, and, most of all, to be needed. For better or worse, that was how Dean healed

Sam let the shivers he'd been holding back break free, exhaustion drag him back down on the bed.

Dean was immediately in motion again, rolling him under heavy, dry covers. "Easy there. Gonna warm you up, dude." He left the room for a minute, and Sam listened sleepily to a few clinks and beeps, and a muttered curse that tweaked the corner of Sam's mouth. Then Dean was back, lifting his head so he could drink something. Hot cocoa, and it heated Sam from the inside-out. "That better?" Dean asked him.

He nodded, lowering himself with a sigh. The room had steadied, even if it looked a little gauzy. Sam tilted his head toward his brother. "Walter?"

"You mean Gene?" Dean said with a small smirk. He shook his head. "I was thinking the garden could use some fertilizer. Somehow I don't think Serena's gonna miss him too much."

"Neighbors?" Sam mumbled. A storm fierce enough to skin someone would have been hard to miss.

"Nobody's come knocking yet. The elemental was…efficient. Think personal-sized tornado. I figure we've got at least a day until somebody gets suspicious—there's time for you to rest up." Dean cocked his head. "Might move the Volvo, though."

"Pinto," Sam yawned.

"No, that's… Never mind, I got it. You gonna be okay here while I go plant Gene?"

Sam's bandaged hands flexed, but he didn't let them move.

"I'll stay close, okay?" His brother's hand, still scarred from the fight with the vetalas, rested on the cover close enough to Sam's that their knuckles brushed. "I promise. Go to sleep, kiddo."

He always listened to his brother.

**The End**


End file.
